


All Existing Things

by whitesheets



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, F/F, Future Fic, Older Woman/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 09:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18618226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitesheets/pseuds/whitesheets
Summary: Michael pushes her away until she doesn't.





	All Existing Things

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure I'm not the only one who finds the relationship dynamic between Michael and Terran Philippa to be _extremely_ interesting so as we all know, interesting dynamics always lead to fanfic. So here you go. One-shot for now.
> 
> No beta, so please excuse grammar or typo mistakes.

Michael is one of the rare ones who visit the gym in the middle of the night, mostly on nights she cannot sleep, plagued by thoughts that will not leave her alone. Some are painful, some are not, some are bland thoughts about the next day’s tasks at hand. She used to visit the gym on the _Shenzhou_ in the early mornings, typical of the routine of a Starfleet officer, but those days have long left her. Nowadays, the gym is a battle space, the punching bag a substitute for her demons and she has so many of them.

The gym is never closed, just as there is never truly a ‘night’ where there is no sun, and the crew is perpetually on rotating shifts anyway.

Being the bait for the Red Angel - _herself_ from the future, it seems - in this insane plan is just one part. What truly keeps her awake, is the possibility of meeting a future version of herself, the person she ends up becoming, and the very real possibility of death. She puts on the bravery she needs, but as it goes, the bravado always leaves her when she takes off her uniform and climbs into bed. The darkness and doubt come for her in the midst of sleep, and she ends up staying awake until it’s time for her shift anyway.

So tonight, she ventures to the _Discovery_ gym and unexpectedly walks in on Agent Georgiou kicking a punching bag into oblivion. Funny, she’d assumed that both Leland and Georgiou had returned to NCIA-93 for the day.

The older woman doesn’t stop her relentless assault on the sand-filled bag, effortlessly flexing against the resistance bands for her foot to land on the high points of her target. Michael knows those high kicks are necessary for a woman of her height in battle to reach an opponent’s jaw - or _head_ if she intends to incapacitate severely. Michael has never been the tallest person in the room, but Philippa is even smaller.

She takes a breath. She has never had the opportunity to truly observe the older woman’s physicality before, and it is quite impressive.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Philippa says, without missing a beat. Her grey tanks are soaked - she clearly has been at this for a while but her movements are quick and agile, showing no signs of slowing down.

“I didn’t expect anyone to be here at this time of the day,” Michael says, truthfully.

“I have another discussion with Captain Pike and Lieutenant Stamets in a few hours. I thought I’d catch some time alone here. The gym on our ship is usually… in use. The gyms here are not as good as the one on my _Charon_ but ah, well.”

 _My_ Charon. _My_ empire. _My_ Michael.

Everything with this woman is always about possession. Michael cannot even begin to try and understand such a world-view, so alien it is from her own.

“Never pegged you to be an introvert,” Michael says and begins to busy herself with her hand wrap.

“I am not,” Philippa smirks, and finally pauses long enough to give Michael a glance. In another time, such a gaze would have been welcome. “Just selfish. I like having the place to myself.” Her breath is short from exertion, and her chest rises and falls as she removes the resistance bands from waist and foot. Sweat glistens on her flushed, bare skin, and Michael can’t remember the last time she has seen this Terran so … human. It is almost refreshing.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, I am not disappointed.” Philippa approaches her, her footsteps light and feline. “Want to work up an appetite for breakfast?” she teases, an eyebrow arched. “I am itching for someone to spar with and… it has been a while.”

Something inside Michael flares - in pain and regret - the same way each time she comes face to face with this Mirror counterpart of her Captain. She pushes it away, hard.

“No thanks,” Michael says and walks towards the punching bag. “I’m not sure if I’d be able to restrain myself.” Hearing her own words aloud, she knows that it doesn’t come out right. What she means is that _this_ \- being here _now_ \- is meant to be a purge to clear her mind and her emotions may not be something she can control. She _wants_ to drain herself until she is tired enough to crash for one or two hours before she is up again and she isn’t sure if she has the energy to be mindful of a sparring partner versus just a punching bag.

She is too tired to explain, though.

The older woman presses her lips together. “Suit yourself then,” she shrugs carelessly and leaves the floor to pick up her discarded bag. She slips away without a second look.

 

* * *

  

The halls in sickbay are white, whiter and brighter than any other corridor on the ship.

Despite the fury of footsteps - how long has it been? - reverberating around the area, beeps and muted chatter surrounding her, Michael feels a strange sense of stillness, as if there is a bubble of calm around her. It keeps her heart rate steady, the anxiety at bay. She’d gone through about twenty logs before the adrenaline slowly faded away, leaving her utterly exhausted. Now, she doesn’t want to open her eyes, wants to stay within this cocoon for just a few minutes longer, doesn’t want to deal with the weight of the world on her shoulders and that fact that her mother is alive, the logs she has gone through.

A cool, oscillating breeze from the air-duct just right above her dusts across her hand, and she pulls away.

“She should be completely fine,” someone says nearby. After a moment, the air shifts around her, quieting down, fewer footsteps, less muttering.

Michael doesn’t really know if they are talking about her, or another patient - so many patients all the time now - but she knows she is fine. Dr. Culber had said so when she first woke up hours ago. They say she died for over a minute from toxic asphyxiation but she only has vague recollections of how death felt like - _nothing_.

She wonders if her Captain had died like that too, feeling nothing. She hopes not. It has been a while now, but she will never stop thinking about it, although the sharp pain is now dulled into a constant faint throb.

The breeze brushes against her exposed hand again, and she tucks it under the standard issue blanket covering her body.

The own movements disturbs her cocoon, and the calm presence in her circle begins to distant. She opens her eyes on instinct. The lights are dimmed to a warm glow now, but it still takes a while for her vision to focus on the familiar, retreating back of the Terran Emperor.

 

* * *

 

Eight hundred and forty mission logs from the Daedalus suit.

Michael has gone through only half of them now, some no longer than 30 seconds, some as long as ten minutes. The time sensitivity of the mission forces her to skip over her mother’s more personal entries, the ones talking about her and her father, but she makes a promise to herself that she will go through all of them once this whole mess with Control is done with.

Surprise barely registers when she finds Philippa Georgiou with her mother down on Essof IV - she has stopped trying to anticipate the Terran’s motives, but what _is_ surprising is the way her mother looks at her. Is there respect she sees? What could Philippa have said or done to invoke such a reaction in her logical mother? It irritates her somewhat. The Terran Emperor, for all intents and purposes, is _not_ a respectable person and her mother should know better than to have any semblance of trust for her.

There is time to ask afterwards, Michael tells herself.

Until there is not.

 _Everything_ falls apart, and she loses her mother yet again, failing in what she was so sure they could do.

Even after Spock gives her the comfort she so desperately needs in their game of chess, telling her that everyone can write the path they walk, she still cries in the shower, and cannot muster up enough energy for self-sustenance. She misses dinner, choosing to spend her entire evening in her quarters, watching the rest of her mother’s logs she had skipped earlier in the day.

She thinks it must be close to midnight before she puts the tablet away, her eyes stinging from dryness from staring at the screen for three hours straight. Curled up on her bed, her eyes begin to water and she presses them shut, biting her lip to prevent a sob. She cries too often, nowadays.

Michael doesn’t even turn around at the hiss of her doors opening. “I told you I’m fine, Spock. It’s late.”

“Not fine enough to feed yourself,” Philippa says, and Michael’s eyes fly open.

She brushes at her eyes angrily and sits up to glare at her unwelcome visitor who doesn’t have the decency to knock.

The other woman shrugs, unfazed, and puts a tray down. On it, a bowl of noodles in broth and a glass of what looked to be green tea. “Your last meal was this morning at the crack of dawn.”

Michael wants to rebel and say no, but the meal smells good and her stomach growls. Her Captain loved simple Chinese noodles in broth, and once told Michael that it was something that will never fail to remind her of home despite intergalactic travel. Of course, _this_ Philippa would be manipulative enough to bring Michael something she knows will appeal to her emotionally. If it isn’t so calculated, she may have even appreciated the thoughtfulness.

“You read her personal logs?” Michael accuses, standing up so that she can use her height against the smaller woman. It’s not much, but she’s feeling particularly defensive.

“Excuse _me_?” the older woman says, narrowing her eyes.

“To figure out what food to bring.”

“Always so mistrustful, Michael.”

“You give me good reasons to be.”

The other woman chuckles but shows no sign of having taken offence at her words.

Only then does Michael notice the bruise around the side of Philippa’s face, her hair recently worn high up, clear from her face, let down on one side. It is effective in masking the injury and distracts Michael from her original train of thought. Leland was a brutal opponent down on Essof IV, and she knows that Philippa was crucial in buying them time. Perhaps even the most despotic of them know the value of teamwork in trying to prevent the obliteration of all sentient life.

“Are you … all right?” Michael asks, instead.

Philippa rolls her eyes. “I have bruises to last me until the next century if you must know. But yes, I am as _all right_ as I can be which is not the point of me being here.”

“Then what is?”

“Your dinner,” the Terran says, her tone clipped. Evidently, she doesn’t like discussing injuries - or in fact, anything that makes her weak, Michael realises.

“What did you talk to my mother about, down there?”

“Oh, things. I wanted to see the Daedalus suit for myself, what Section 31 technology is capable of,” Philippa says, noncommittally. She doesn’t say anything else but Michael can sense that she is being observed, like a specimen under a microscope.

“That’s all?”

Although this Philippa isn’t from her universe, eyes cold and hard unlike her Captain Georgiou, hair straight and severe, unlike the gentle waves of her prime universe counterpart, they are so remarkably alike in many other ways. For everything this Philippa tells her, Michael knows that there are ten other things she doesn’t.

“I did not read your Captain’s personal logs, not much of it anyway,” the other woman says and turns to go. The door slides open as she approaches, but she hovers for a few seconds before turning to look at Michael.

“I brought you what I liked to have myself after a long day. Goodnight, Michael.”

 

* * *

  

Even without looking, Michael can sense her presence.

It is not nearly as dramatic as having a hush fall over the room, but the other woman sure has a way of being at the center of attention for a black ops agent. Michael tries not to look her way but that proves difficult to do. It has been over a week since she last saw her. She watches Philippa pick up what the food synthesizer serves and look around for a place to park herself.

Immediately, Michael averts her gaze, hoping that Philippa doesn’t see her. She doesn’t really feel like talking to anyone in particular, least of all, the Terran emperor. She wonders if she can make an exit without attracting further attention but then decides against it. There is no way the other woman will miss her in the crowd if she stands up now. Taking her chances, Michael keeps her head bowed, hoping that Tilly or Stamets or even Captain Pike would materialise and take the empty seat in front of her.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, Michael,” a low, amused voice says, and Michael lets out a low sigh.

Philippa stands in front of her, grey tray in hand.

“What would I have to worry about?” Michael asks, neutrally. She thinks she can smell a whiff of sesame from the bowl on Philippa’s tray. _All existing things are really one_ , they used to say on her old ship. Does _this_ Philippa truly share the same taste buds _her_ Philippa did? It makes her want to shudder a little bit, knowing the extent of what this one has dined on first-hand.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the idea of me joining you for dinner. You were trying extremely hard to blend into your chair.”

Michael winces. “I didn’t realise you’d seen me.”

“I _did_ warp my way across the universe to find you once. The mess hall is nothing in comparison.” Michael doesn’t know how she feels about the other woman’s debonair attitude but it makes her respond without thinking things through.

“Some people would call that stalking.”

“Others find that kind of attention … intoxicating,” the other woman smirks and lets a few beats pass until Michael swallows uncomfortably. “But at any rate, you eat dinner and I eat dinner and this is the only place to get dinner on this ship. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Michael fights against rolling her eyes. “I wasn’t. But you _did_ feel the need to stop by and make your presence felt.”

“I didn’t _need_ to stop by. My presence was already felt. It’s good that you’re eating, though.”

It irks her that the other woman can know her so well without actually knowing her. _I know so much more about you than you can imagine_. “Is that all you came to say?” Michael says, shortly.

For the first time, Michael sees a semblance of something flicker in Philippa’s dark eyes. It isn’t anger - she has seen how anger looks like on Philippa - no, this is something else. Irritation, maybe.

“No, I came by to say hello. See how you were doing. You know, like a _good_ Federation citizen. Have a good dinner, Michael. I have other plans to attend to.”

For what seems like the umpteenth time, Michael watches Philippa walk away.

 

* * *

 

The bruises on Philippa's stately face are freshly pink and angry, new additions to the old, fading, yellow-purple ones Michael assumes have been carefully concealed with cosmetics. Even so, the structure of her face retains a cold kind of beautiful.

“It looks worse than it is,” Dr Culber had told her, something she already knew, but needed to hear. “She’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He’d said it as if she isn’t _here_ , now, and Michael doesn’t like the idea of that.

The constant beeping of a life sign reassures her that all is okay, as does Dr Culber’s explanation that it is _only_ a concussion. Logically, Michael knows that concussions are not life-threatening and a patient generally does not sustain long term brain injury from it but two hours later, she is still sitting beside the unconscious woman, making notes on her tablet for the report she’ll have to write up later on for her first-run in the Daedalus suit.

Nobody knows where they managed to launch themselves to - she planned for 930 years into the future - but how accurate exactly, Tilly is still trying to work out. They are nowhere near Terralysium's orbit, unable to pick up any signals thus far... but Michael is too tired to worry now. She is more than happy to let everyone else shoulder the burden for her, take over what Philippa had called her “martyr complex” for a while.

The Sphere data is out of Control's reach and isn't that what she had set out to do?

At the rate they’ve been going, there is no way they will be able to conduct individual funerals for all of their dead, not enough crew to prepare the bodies - hell, they don’t even have enough medical crew to take care of the still-living in sickbay. So many injured, some of them probably disabled in some way or other… Stamets resting nearby in a medically-induced coma with Dr. Culber at his side.

She had almost expected to come back on board to find Philippa dead too - she'd seen it when she touched the time crystal, most of her friends _and_ Philippa, hit by Leland's phaser, motionless on the bridge's unforgiving floor.

But Philippa isn't dead. Not dead, _just_ concussed. Reno had admitted that she’d thought the Section 31 agent was pretty much a goner when she tripped over the unconscious woman on her way to check on the spore drive. Saru told Michael that Philippa had gone after Leland in a feat of vengeance that only the Terran emperor could have pulled off. If Spock’s and her encounter with a Control-driven Kamran Gant is any indication of how tough Leland could have been as an adversary, then Philippa could have well died doing what she did.

The thought makes Michael’s stomach churn, lodges something in her chest, the same something that makes her want to stay where she is.

So she stays, for an hour at first, which turns into two, and then almost three, when Philippa finally regains consciousness.

She doesn’t think she has ever seen a true smile from _this_ Philippa until this moment, a small, fleeting one as their eyes meet.

“So you’re alive,” the older woman quips as if she hasn’t been the one unconscious for the better part of the last three hours.

It sounds so absurd to Michael, that she chuckles out loud.

“I’m not the one all banged up in sickbay,” she shrugs, but her veins flood with relief all the same. She clenches her fists, fighting the urge to cover the other woman’s hand, lying on her side, with her own. “Kinda stupid to take on Leland by yourself if you ask me.”

Philippa only huffs and rolls her eyes in response.

“Pretty selfless for a Terran.”

“Like every other sentient being out there about to be wiped out, I happen to want to live.”

Michael can tell it makes the other woman uncomfortable to have her good qualities acknowledged, although to be fair, in _her_ world, such qualities are nothing more than weaknesses for the enemy to exploit.

 _I’m not the only one willing to exploit that, you know_.

But she _hasn’t_ exploited Michael. In fact, every decision Philippa has ended up making in the past weeks have been to protect. Manipulative, yes, ulterior motives, sometimes, but Michael has always been on the receiving end of any good that the Terran is capable of doing.

“Lucky us then,” Michael says, sincerely. Screw it. She reaches out and takes a deceivingly delicate hand. It feels cool to the touch.

“Lucky you,” Philippa replies, quietly. There is no mockery in her voice, for once, and it makes her voice sound warm and completely out of character. It is far more telling of how she truly feels than everything she has ever said to Michael before.

Michael’s chest flares at the familiar affection, this second chance that pierces through the dull throb of regret in her chest.

“I know.”

 

 

_fin_


End file.
